Brain Surgery wrote: "Right," said Jane, turning the corner, "This had better be tupping important, I've business to be getting on with."
John jumped at her voice. Jane felt a sense of gratification at the hint of fear on his face. She'd worked hard for her reputation. John smiled nervously.
"Hey, cuz," he said, "I've, ah, sort of dug myself into a bit of a hole."
Jane crossed her arms.
"I'm not going to give you any money."
"Nah, nah, it's not like that -- I'm clean now -- I just, ah..." he looked down at his feet, let out a little half-snort--half-laugh. Jane took a step towards him; he looked up at her, fear returning to his face for a moment.
"I'm a busy woman, John. Some muppet's taken a gizmo from the lab, and I'm on the clock here. What do you want?"
John's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He stumbled backwards two steps. Jane felt a knot form in her gut. Surely not, she thought.
"What -- what lab are you talking about, cuz?"
"Oh, no," said Jane, "Oh, John, you total tupping muppet. You're the one who took it, aren't you?"
"I -- I didn't want to, but the Haitians-"
"The tupping Haitians? You. Utter. Mug."
Jane massaged her forehead with one hand and then sighed. She looked at John; he had the device in his hand now. The Dream Machine. She walked up to him and snatched it.
"Please tell me you haven't used this thing," she said, and even as she said those words she knew that he had. John laughed nervously; he was trembling.
"I saw... cuz, that thing, whatever it is, I saw things I ain't ever wanted to see. But... now you can just bring it back, no harm, no foul, right?"
Jane shook her head.
"They'll want to have a look at you. Cut open your head. You idiot."
"But you wouldn't let them do that to me, would you cuz? I mean, we're family, innit?"
She pocketed the device and stared into the middle distance for a few moments, weighing up her options. What was one less useless junkie to the world?
"All right," said Jane, "Here's what I think. I found the thief, but he was wearing a hoodie. I got the gizmo back safe and sound, but he got away. Never saw the face."
"Oh -- thanks, cuz, I knew I could count on you. I owe you one, man."
"You owe me more than one," she said, and sighed.
"You've got to get out of town. The Haitians are bad news, but the worst they can do is kill you. The people I'm working for..."
John spread out his hands.
"Where would I go? I'll be fine, cuz."
No, you'll be catfood, thought Jane, but she couldn't be bothered to argue. She'd done her bit.
"Take care, John," she said, and walked away.
Writing thing
Re: Writing thing
Number 4 (No matter how shitty my life could be, at least I knew there was one thing that would never let me down : _______):
Re: Writing thing
41/ "Because sometimes we let things die but wish they would come back." [an out of context quote from another forum, which i found oddly inspiring]
No.
Re: Writing thing
Number 5 ("It's as easy as one, two, three."):
One, Two, Three wrote: "Tell me the code," he said, laying his tools out on the table, one at a time. A butterknife. A screwdriver. A tablespoon.
"It'll go easier for you if you tell me now," he said. I looked up at him; his face was an emotionless mask. I wondered where he'd came from; I still don't know.
"I'll never talk," I said, and I meant it. He leaned forward and tugged at the ropes securing my arms and legs to the chair.
"A lot of people say that. You'll break. Better to tell me now, while your body still works."
"Go to Hell."
He shrugged. He'd heard it all before, I suppose.
"All right, then," he said, and picked up the spoon.
Re: Writing thing
Number 6 (prompt):
Maybe wrote: Zola ran her finger around the rim of the glass. It didn't make a sound -- she'd never got the knack of that. She sighed and drank down the last few drops of wine. She could hear a train pulling into the station, and knew it was hers. It was time to make the decision.
Out of one pocket she took her ticket, out of the other her phone, and placed them side-by-side. It wasn't too late. She could call now -- there were seven missed calls listed on the screen. Petra would still take her back: she would drive right over and bring her home.
She looked at the ticket. Zola didn't recognise the name of the destination; she wasn't even sure she could pronounce it. She had chosen it at random, which had seemed like such a romantic idea -- a glass of wine and a new city in a foreign country -- but now she was starting to think that it was simply foolish.
Then she leaned backwards, and the bruise on her back jabbed against the chair. She winced: it hurt, but it wasn't so bad. Maybe it wouldn't happen again.
The phone started vibrating: Petra was trying to reach her again. Zola stared at the little face smiling out at her, and remembered it twisted into a snarl. Maybe it wouldn't happen again. Maybe this time Petra would mean what she said, would keep off the drink -- and the other stuff. Maybe.
Zola picked up the ticket and left to catch her train.
Re: Writing thing
42/ Any of the pictures from this link : http://theartofanimation.tumblr.com/pos ... ura-bifano
No.
Re: Writing thing
oxy are you planning on writing anything or has finding prompts actually turned into another form of procrastination?
Re: Writing thing
#2 
Can't even say I intend to do it, because it's pretty hard for me to get into a writing mood.
I'd have to force myself to sit down and actually start writing. Which is what this thing was all about in the first place.
Guess it's another fuck up for me ?
But more seriously, I had other preoccupations these last few days, what with preparing to go to basic the 14th of this month for four whole month and all that.
I preferred to unwind by playing videogames and chatting with people.
Can't even say I intend to do it, because it's pretty hard for me to get into a writing mood.
I'd have to force myself to sit down and actually start writing. Which is what this thing was all about in the first place.
Guess it's another fuck up for me ?
But more seriously, I had other preoccupations these last few days, what with preparing to go to basic the 14th of this month for four whole month and all that.
I preferred to unwind by playing videogames and chatting with people.
No.
Re: Writing thing
But if that can reassure you, I'm pretty certain I won't have much to do apart from writing in my off times during these four month, so I'll likely produce some things, however little they may be. Not sure if I'll be able to post them, though, as my access to electronic equipment apart from my phone will be limited to non-existent. These'll be likely hand-written in a few little notebooks I'll be bringing with me.
Consequently, they'll have higher chances of sucking
Consequently, they'll have higher chances of sucking
No.
Re: Writing thing
I'd say just choose one at random and force yourself to sit down with a pen and paper for an hour or so (don't use a computer; the Internet is too much of a distraction)
do a flash fiction! They're kind of fun. I promise I'll give some meaningful feedback too
do a flash fiction! They're kind of fun. I promise I'll give some meaningful feedback too
Re: Writing thing
Anyway, number 7 (prompt):
Sita wrote: Tom leaned on the railing of his balcony and looked up. He was at the top of the world -- taller than any mountain-top, the building would be a miracle in any other age. Now it was one of hundreds. Thousands if you didn't limit yourself to this city. Millions if you didn't limit yourself to this world. And the real miracles were hanging overhead.
Thirty thousand tonnes of metal and glass, each Craft sat in the middle of the sky. They were silent. They were real -- sickeningly solid. Most people couldn't bear to look at them: every natural instinct screamed that they should fall. Tom forced himself to examine the ridges and coloured contours of the Craft nearest him.
"Sir?" said his assistant. Tom couldn't be bothered to remember her name -- assistants didn't tend to last long enough for it to be worth the effort. He offered no response; he knew from experience that she would be overcome with awe. To someone who had been outside only through a holodisplay, the view from his balcony would be overwhelming.
"The gentleman from Earth is here to see you, sir," she said, and Tom couldn't detect any tremble in her voice. He grinned and turned his head to look at her.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," she said, looked up at the Craft, then back at Tom. She looked the same vague toast-brown of all the city-dwellers, a product of hundreds of years of interbreeding. She was pretty, in an angular sort of way; Tom guessed at some Polish influence in her bone structure.
"What's your name?"
"Sita Smith," she said, which was no help at all. Names had lost any meaning a long time ago.
"Sita. Do you know the story behind that name?"
"Yes, sir. Sita was a princess, and she was kidnapped by a demon, and a war was fought over her. And later her husband abandoned her because he thought her children were not his children. But my mother named me after a friend of hers."
"And what do you think of that story?"
Sita shrugged.
"It's just a story," she said. Tom found himself laughing for the first time in a decade. A sacred tale for millions of people over thousands of years. Just a story.
"What is the gentleman wearing today?"
"I've only spoken to his assistant, sir."
"Describe his assistant, then," he said, and was pleased to see a flicker of confusion on Sita's face -- but it was only there for a moment.
"She's a woman, blond hair. Pale. I'd say she's sixteen or seventeen years old."
Tom nodded, looked back out at the Craft.
"They're a strange lot, back on Earth. The gentleman has no need of assistants; he seems to have chosen the body of a young woman for this meeting. Please, send him in."
Tom thought that she would splutter or hesitate; but Sita did not miss a beat.
"Yes, sir," she said.
Re: Writing thing
Prompt
----
It’s dark for daytime, even for this place. My breath is loud in my mask, in the helmet of my alien suit.
I wonder what makes the air like that, so dark and thick and green so even on at noon on a cloudless day it feels like being on the bottom of a dirty fish tank, the rocks and towers and mountains blurring into the dim green soup of the sky. Its cloudy now, and the sun is setting. The sun’s a blurry green light on a horizon lost in the fog.
There’s grass on the ground. Something a bit like grass, anyway. Darker than grass, the plants here are dark, very dark, green but very dark. Everything seems to be green and dark here. It looks barren, miserable, just the sort-of grass and rocks sticking out here and there and a circle of those floating animals that hang from balloons of flesh, floating, tethered to the ground with ropes. The village livestock. In the distance there’s a huge pinnacle of rock, like a tower, disappearing into the fog. You find those all over the place on this planet. The aliens – the bosses – seem to be interested in them.
The local village is over there, behind those two boulders, the huts looking almost like just more boulders in the fog.
I want to go home. Does home even exist anymore? The aliens don’t tell us much. Word filters down though. Word that the ships take a very long time to go from star to star, that a very long time passes when we’re in those sleeping coffins. Word, and a feeling they don’t want us to know how long those trips have been. That they’re worried about what we might do if we found out.
Even if we did rebel, what could we do? Make this planet ours, I suppose, for a little while. Until the aliens turn the guns in space on us, or just cut off our food. The heavy weaponry’s in space, the machines that make things are in space. We’re not an army, not really – more like enforcers. When the aliens need to know the Locals are behaving themselves, or want to take somebody in, or want to slap down some locals who get uppity before it spreads, they send us. Anything serious, that’s what the guns in space are for.
I wonder if they don’t like being hated. Maybe that’s why they use us. To the locals, we’re the face of the space invaders. Sort of – not like they ever actually get to see our faces. They never get to see the real invaders. They just get to see us two-legged apes waddling around in these suits.
We wondered, on Earth, why there seemed to be a couple of different types of alien, one with six legs, one with eight. I guess they were just guys taken from their homes, like us. Nobody’s ever seen one of the real invaders. Nobody knows what they look like.
The aliens we saw on Earth wore suits too. Maybe that’s how they work it. Send to each planet soldiers who can’t breathe the air; chlorine breathers to methane world, methane breathers to a sulfane word, sulfane breathers to an oxygen world, oxygen breathers to a chlorine world. Mix and match them so your janissaries can’t even take a breath without your technology.
The flyer’s engine whines as it hovers. We advance. We’re supposed to grab somebody from this village. I wonder why. The aliens don’t tell us much.
I want to go home.
----
It’s dark for daytime, even for this place. My breath is loud in my mask, in the helmet of my alien suit.
I wonder what makes the air like that, so dark and thick and green so even on at noon on a cloudless day it feels like being on the bottom of a dirty fish tank, the rocks and towers and mountains blurring into the dim green soup of the sky. Its cloudy now, and the sun is setting. The sun’s a blurry green light on a horizon lost in the fog.
There’s grass on the ground. Something a bit like grass, anyway. Darker than grass, the plants here are dark, very dark, green but very dark. Everything seems to be green and dark here. It looks barren, miserable, just the sort-of grass and rocks sticking out here and there and a circle of those floating animals that hang from balloons of flesh, floating, tethered to the ground with ropes. The village livestock. In the distance there’s a huge pinnacle of rock, like a tower, disappearing into the fog. You find those all over the place on this planet. The aliens – the bosses – seem to be interested in them.
The local village is over there, behind those two boulders, the huts looking almost like just more boulders in the fog.
I want to go home. Does home even exist anymore? The aliens don’t tell us much. Word filters down though. Word that the ships take a very long time to go from star to star, that a very long time passes when we’re in those sleeping coffins. Word, and a feeling they don’t want us to know how long those trips have been. That they’re worried about what we might do if we found out.
Even if we did rebel, what could we do? Make this planet ours, I suppose, for a little while. Until the aliens turn the guns in space on us, or just cut off our food. The heavy weaponry’s in space, the machines that make things are in space. We’re not an army, not really – more like enforcers. When the aliens need to know the Locals are behaving themselves, or want to take somebody in, or want to slap down some locals who get uppity before it spreads, they send us. Anything serious, that’s what the guns in space are for.
I wonder if they don’t like being hated. Maybe that’s why they use us. To the locals, we’re the face of the space invaders. Sort of – not like they ever actually get to see our faces. They never get to see the real invaders. They just get to see us two-legged apes waddling around in these suits.
We wondered, on Earth, why there seemed to be a couple of different types of alien, one with six legs, one with eight. I guess they were just guys taken from their homes, like us. Nobody’s ever seen one of the real invaders. Nobody knows what they look like.
The aliens we saw on Earth wore suits too. Maybe that’s how they work it. Send to each planet soldiers who can’t breathe the air; chlorine breathers to methane world, methane breathers to a sulfane word, sulfane breathers to an oxygen world, oxygen breathers to a chlorine world. Mix and match them so your janissaries can’t even take a breath without your technology.
The flyer’s engine whines as it hovers. We advance. We’re supposed to grab somebody from this village. I wonder why. The aliens don’t tell us much.
I want to go home.
Re: Writing thing
Number 8 (prompt):
Pirates! wrote: There were two explosions in the hallway outside; the guard spun around and hefted his gun. He flicked the little radio strapped to his chest, but got only static.
"Shit," he mumbled. He kept the door in his sights and stepped around beside the control column. There were footsteps outside, and voices. He couldn't quite make them out. He thought: Who the Hell could it be?
The door slid open, and he saw a grenade arc into the room. He moved fully behind the control column, placed his arm over his eyes, and loosened his jaw. The sound from the flashbang was deafening, and even through his arm he could see a bright light.
When it was over he staggered to his feet and struggled to keep his balance. The world was spinning around him, booming sounds were echoing through his skull, and his cheeks were burned red. He managed to focus back on the open door. There were people there now -- they weren't wearing uniforms, but they each had a black ribbon tied around their upper arms. He aimed his gun at the nearest one, and three bullets thudded into his chest.
"We've got the bridge," he heard one of them say. A woman. The guard fell down onto his back. Black ribbons. Pirates, he thought. He could feel blood leaking into his clothes. He could feel the warmth draining away.
"Good," crackled a reply, another woman; "You've got maybe five more minutes until the alarms go off. Get that thing out of the atmosphere."
Fuck you, thought the guard, and rolled over onto his belly. He took aim at the woman on the radio, as she was coming up to the control column. Another of the pirates saw him, tried to respond, but too late.
He pulled the trigger.
Re: Writing thing
Unrelated, a little something I wiped up for the end of my "character" in a game.
It's really bad, but if I had wanted to do it "right", it probably would have taken several days for me to write it, and I didn't have the time or the motivation.
Anyway :
It's really bad, but if I had wanted to do it "right", it probably would have taken several days for me to write it, and I didn't have the time or the motivation.
Anyway :
No.
-
Bakustra
- Religious Fifth Columnist Who Hates Science, Especially Evolution
- Posts: 1216
- Joined: Mon Sep 26, 2011 12:32 pm
- Location: Wherever I go, there are nothing but punks like you.
Re: Writing thing
Trying this
He parked on the third floor. No assignation, no particular reason, just habit. Occasionally he resolved to park on another floor, perhaps even on the roof, and let the rain soak his umbrella, but nothing doing so far. At least he took the stairs, giving him at least one beneficent habit. He whirled around the flights, reached the steel door with a massive, peeling "3" painted inexpertly on, and pulled it open.
He stepped out, and saw with some distaste that the light over the door had burnt out again. Was there such a thing as a lightbulb goblin that went around snipping filaments and letting the gas out of fluorescents? He walked straight on to his car, and caught some movement out of his right eye. He turned, and saw a figure in a big coat and a porkpie hat standing off in the shadows of a parking space. He waved, and called, "Lovely night, isn't it?"
The figure stepped forward, into the light, and looked him right in the eyes.
It was a man made entirely out of insects. Where his eyes should be, centipedes extended and waved gently around, like a snake tasting the air. His face was largely brown and black from cockroaches and scarabs, but ladybugs formed little red brows and lashes and lips. What hair could be seen within the hat was made of obese caterpillars, jiggling lightly in the almost-breeze. The hissing and singing of bugs rubbing together and twitching could be heard in the sudden still. The man smiled, and his teeth were cockroach nymphs, pale-bodied and slim. One of the canines fluttered its wings. Jacky could feel a scream bubbling up somewhere deep inside him.
Then they passed out of sight, and he saw the underside of the hat, briefly, and then the insect-man's neck, sculpted in praying mantis and scorpions, hanging together like the world's largest acrobat show. Then the insect-man, mouth still open and turned up, waved, and Jacky found himself focusing on the hand. The palm was made of a big butterfly, blue and iridescent, with a few more butterflies forming the sides, and then the fingers. Four of the fingers were simply stick insects, poking halfway out from under the butterflies. The thumb, however, was in parts. Two enormous bees, wings swaying gently, with little black dots at the joint that Jacky realized were ants, guiding the thumb as it moved. The wave finished, and the insect-man turned, walked away, and soon was gone into the night.
Jacky's insides warred between throwing up and screaming loudly, and then the stillness was broken. Laughter came from the street below, some bunch of kids starting their night, and Jacky decided to do both, making his way over to the stained garbage can. Later, after he had emptied himself, he sat on the hood of his old Accord and wondered whether this would be worse if it were a freak occurrence or the new normal. At last, he got into his car and made his way home.
Work had been an absolute shit today. A pair of pointless meetings where nothing got done, an hour spent trying to talk a coworker into doing their goddamn job, and then the copier had gone down. Just absolutely terrible. But at least Jacky had the walk to cheer him up. The streets between the offices of Gremori Holdings PLC and the sepulchral garage he parked in were vibrant with nightlife. Ravers, leftover Goths, hipsters- it cheered him to see that there was still a life outside of the suit and tie he wore daily. He passed the last tapas bar and made his way into the garage. Twice four stories of fertile airspace with concrete and rebar were girded round, and brightened with yellow and white paint. Every day it filled partway, and every night it nearly emptied out.16/ The distant sound of laughter
He parked on the third floor. No assignation, no particular reason, just habit. Occasionally he resolved to park on another floor, perhaps even on the roof, and let the rain soak his umbrella, but nothing doing so far. At least he took the stairs, giving him at least one beneficent habit. He whirled around the flights, reached the steel door with a massive, peeling "3" painted inexpertly on, and pulled it open.
He stepped out, and saw with some distaste that the light over the door had burnt out again. Was there such a thing as a lightbulb goblin that went around snipping filaments and letting the gas out of fluorescents? He walked straight on to his car, and caught some movement out of his right eye. He turned, and saw a figure in a big coat and a porkpie hat standing off in the shadows of a parking space. He waved, and called, "Lovely night, isn't it?"
The figure stepped forward, into the light, and looked him right in the eyes.
It was a man made entirely out of insects. Where his eyes should be, centipedes extended and waved gently around, like a snake tasting the air. His face was largely brown and black from cockroaches and scarabs, but ladybugs formed little red brows and lashes and lips. What hair could be seen within the hat was made of obese caterpillars, jiggling lightly in the almost-breeze. The hissing and singing of bugs rubbing together and twitching could be heard in the sudden still. The man smiled, and his teeth were cockroach nymphs, pale-bodied and slim. One of the canines fluttered its wings. Jacky could feel a scream bubbling up somewhere deep inside him.
Then they passed out of sight, and he saw the underside of the hat, briefly, and then the insect-man's neck, sculpted in praying mantis and scorpions, hanging together like the world's largest acrobat show. Then the insect-man, mouth still open and turned up, waved, and Jacky found himself focusing on the hand. The palm was made of a big butterfly, blue and iridescent, with a few more butterflies forming the sides, and then the fingers. Four of the fingers were simply stick insects, poking halfway out from under the butterflies. The thumb, however, was in parts. Two enormous bees, wings swaying gently, with little black dots at the joint that Jacky realized were ants, guiding the thumb as it moved. The wave finished, and the insect-man turned, walked away, and soon was gone into the night.
Jacky's insides warred between throwing up and screaming loudly, and then the stillness was broken. Laughter came from the street below, some bunch of kids starting their night, and Jacky decided to do both, making his way over to the stained garbage can. Later, after he had emptied himself, he sat on the hood of his old Accord and wondered whether this would be worse if it were a freak occurrence or the new normal. At last, he got into his car and made his way home.
Re: Writing thing
Number 9 (A dumptruck, unexpected villainy, and what is really important.):
Dumper Truck wrote: "Just hand it over," he said, gun in hand, "Just hand it over and you can walk away from here."
Jane shook her head slowly.
"I don't believe this," she said, and made no move. The machine was in her pocket, but there was no way she was just going to hand it over. The man shook the pistol in a way she was sure was supposed to be threatening, but was actually kind of sweet. Like a little kid.
"I'm not -- I'm serious, hand it over or I'll shoot."
Jane sighed. She moved her right arm slowly, down to the pocket containing the machine. The man was watching her carefully; she could see Ramesh out of the corner of her eye. I just need to play for time, she thought, and fished the packet of cigarettes and her lighter from the pocket.
"What are you doing? Hand it over! I mean it, I'll tupping shoot you!"
If you were going to shoot me, you'd have shot me, thought Jane, and brought a cigarette up to her lips. She lit it, took a drag, and said:
"I'm in a charitable mood, kid. Walk away. Whatever they're paying you, trust me, it isn't enough."
He laughed.
"Don't be mental! I've got the gun, now hand over the tupping machine, you soppy cow!"
"Right, then," she said, and took a step towards him. She pointed down at her feet; "Do you know what these are? These are my stomping boots, and in about thirty seconds they'll be smashing your teeth down your throat, boy."
He took a step backwards and aimed the gun at her head. She laughed and spat off to the side and pointed behind him, smoke trailing from the cigarette held in her fingers.
"Unless that thing flattens you like a pancake first, of course," she said, and at that moment the dumper lorry Ramesh was driving honked its horn. The man turned; he ran off to the side, ducking behind a parked car, but Jane chased him down.
"Right," she said, as she stomped down hard on his leg, which snapped with a satisfyingly loud crack. He tried to bring the gun to bear, but she moved faster and twisted it out of his hand. She stomped on his chest and on his arm, and kept on stomping until he stopped struggling.
"All right, you total waste of air. Who sent you?"
"Shit. I can't -- he'll kill me!"
"Oh, really?" she spat, and stomped on his jaw, splintering his front teeth. He screamed. There was a hand on her shoulder.
"Come on," said Ramesh, "Don't you think that's enough?"
"He was going to shoot me, man. So no, I don't."
"I wouldn't--" sputtered the man, "I was just--"
"Shut up," said Jane, and stomped on his stomach. Ramesh sighed.
"Look. If you carry on like this, we'll never know who sent him, right?"
Jane thought for a few seconds, then shrugged.
"All right. He's all yours, man. Do your stuff."
Ramesh smiled. The man on the floor whimpered and shat himself.
Re: Writing thing
Finally, another one that I'm actually happy with. Number 10 (source):
Rendezvous wrote: "So who's the vee-eye-pee?" asked Jo, voice crystal-clear over the comm-bead in spite of the perpetual rain. The sergeant shrugged.
"Some bigwig archaeologist. From Ariel, I think."
Jo nearly dropped her gun.
"An archaeologist? Fuck's sake, Booker, why didn't you tell me that before I volunteered?"
The sergeant laughed. Jo couldn't see the expression on his face through the coloured glass of his mask, but she could imagine it; and what she could imagine made her want to break his big, smug nose.
"Afraid you'll have to do some real work for once?"
"Fuck you, sarge," she said, and cut off her comm-bead just as he started laughing again. She looked at the landing pad, at the archaeologist in his bulky civilian survival suit clumsily dismounting the cargo shuttle. She glanced enviously at her colleagues engaged in the boring, everyday work of unloading the supply crates, and then turned her gaze on the mountain.
The mountain was really a city. Two hundred years prior its inhabitants had changed themselves into something other than human. There had been a war, and now everyone on the surface of the godforsaken rock once known as Paradise had to wear a survival suit.
The inhabitants of the mountain were long dead, but their machines were built to last and did not like intruders. About once a month they'd get tourists who wanted a close-up look. None of them were stupid enough to want to go inside, so babysitting them was an easy break from the drudge maintenance routine. Archaeologists, on the other hand, were that very highly-educated kind of stupid that tended to get their escorts killed.
A thought occurred and made her smile. Jo flicked on her comm-bead.
"Hey, Booker, maybe the bookworm'll eat it right away and we'll be home in time for tea."
"Hmm. Well, that'd be a neat trick seeing as you'll be out in front, kid."
"Shit!"
The sergeant laughed once more and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He pressed a few buttons on the wrist of his suit.
"All right, I'm about to link the egghead in on our frequency. So play nice."
"Sure."
The sergeant waved at the approaching archaeologist, who had an anti-grav palette trailing after him, and offered a greeting.
"Aloha, señor! Welcome to Paradise!"
Jo nearly burst out laughing at the sudden formality, but bit her tongue. The archaeologist waved back.
"Aloha to you! Are you my escorts?"
"That's right," said the sergeant.
"Oh, goodie," said the archaeologist, brimming with enthusiasm; "Well, let's get going right away! To think -- to see the fabled machine mountain from the inside! Oh, the things they have -- you know they say the technology there matches anything on Earth? I simply can't wait..."
...and on and on he went, as they started the two-kilometre walk to the base of the mountain. He didn't even ask their names. Shit, thought Jo, I'm going to die.
Re: Writing thing
Number 11 (source):
Throne wrote:
I would have cried, had I the appropriate ducts. The battle was going poorly; my colleagues were scientists and maintenance staff, not soldiers. They were selling their lives dearly, nonetheless: we had the technological advantage, for all the good it was doing us.
The report in my hand spelled out our doom. In a microsecond I requested and was granted a personal audience with Dr. Singh, the closest thing to a leader we had. I could have sent him the information via the link, but I suppose I wanted to see a human face.
"We've failed," I told him, "Our spies on Earth have all been discovered."
I dropped the data-tab on his table. My hands should have been shaking, but we had removed such human weaknesses. That was our biggest mistake, I think.
He nodded. I knew that most of his mental capacity was committed to directing the battle.
My lips should have been dry, that I could lick them to reassure myself But they were not I and I did not.
"We should surrender," I said, knowing that doing so would mean losing the link, living the rest of my life as a prisoner.
"I have been sending a signal offering surrender every hour for the past four days. So far there has been no response."
"Then we are doomed."
He shook his head.
"Gaining an Inverted Egg was our only chance of a quick, clean victory. We must retreat and regroup."
He pushed a data packet at me through the link. I opened it up, could not believe what was there, double-checked it, triple-checked it. In all it took me nearly two whole seconds to process.
"I thought that project had been abandoned." It was impossible, and even if it could be made to work, the collateral damage would be the whole world's ecosystem.
But it was not impossible. The figures added up.
"The project was abandoned," he said, "Because of pressure from Earth. Now that they have turned against us, we have no reason not to complete it."
"Millions will die."
"Yes. Their deaths will allow us to become creatures of light, and then we will free humanity from its chains."
"Have you told those at the front line?" I asked, and knew what his response would be.
"Have you told them of your report?"
Of course I had not. To do so would have destroyed morale and hastened my own death.
I told myself at the time that we had no choice. The stakes were too high: the soul of humanity was on the line. Eight million lives was a high price, but...
But the truth was that I did not want to die. So I sat on the chair and became one with the light, and Paradise burned.
Re: Writing thing
Number 12 (The muffled sound of (a) flag(s) flying in the wind.):
Streets wrote:The wind blew cold through the streets. Even through my thick winter coat I shivered. I should have been indoors, in front of the fire and under a warm light, not trekking through the streets of this part of town at this time of night.
It's an odd mental balancing act, walking in this kind of area. On the one hand, I was diligently trying to ignore the piles of rags scrunched up in the doorways of the abandoned shops; on the other hand, my coat was expensive enough that it could mark me as a target.
I caught sight of a child's face amongst the rags, chalk-white, asleep -- or unmoving, at least. I kept walking. Every shadow could contain a drug-addict mugger. Every moment I was there I was in danger.
Maybe I should have stopped. I don't know. Am I responsible for every damn loser in this world?
I reached my destination without confrontation, as it happened. I cursed under my breath as I fiddled with the keys: they were like shards of ice. My fingers were burning from the cold. I thought: there had better be a damn good reason for dragging me out here. Otherwise there'd be Hell to pay.
The door was plain metal -- the same kind that all the absentee commercial landlords had up, to prevent squatters. There was a poster up from the police, and more importantly there was a gang sign sprayed on the door: this building was protected. My key clicked in the lock and the door swung out.
The walls inside were freshly-painted. The twang of a sitar echoed down the corridor. I stepped past the threshold and out of the cold.
Re: Writing thing
Not working from a prompt this time, rather inspired by the idea of an expedition sent by humans living on a tidally locked world exploring the forbidding perpetually dark lands for the first time.
-----
We walked under the stars. We thought we must have been the first human beings to walk under the stars in thousands of years.
People had nibbled around the fringes of the Darklands before, gone into the places where the sun doesn’t shine, where icy lands and ice-crusted sea lie under a purple sky, where you can tell the direction of the sun only by a brightening on the horizon, where the farther away from the sun you walk the harder it gets to see. The Mudsen Expedition in ’49 got far enough they started to see the stars. They didn’t know what to make of them at first; little lights appearing out of the darkening sky, like little suns that didn’t light up the land and didn’t make it warm. But we were the first to really see the stars. We were the first to go far enough into the Darklands that that brightness on the horizon had disappeared; the first human beings in thousands of years to truly know what the old books called night. Or so we thought.
The Old Books talked about the stars. They said they were other suns, that other worlds went around. They said the first humans on the Undersun came from one.
The old books said the world humans originally came from spun around faster than it went around its sun, so it didn’t have any Darklands. It was light half the time there, and dark half the time. Our ancestors lived with the night. Every time the sun would go down, they would see the stars. Some of the Old Books are fiction, and they talk casually about night, about the stars. It would explain some things, why we can see better in the dark than any animal that doesn’t live in caves.
The ancestors were afraid of the night, but part of them also liked it, its concealment, its mystery, its stars. The stars are beautiful. Talsen cried when we first turned our lights off and let our eyes adjust to the dark and really saw the stars.
We were walking, farther into the Darklands, away from the sun. Talsen was talking about how sometime in the future we might bring people here to look at the stars, might set up telescopes pointed at the sky to see them. That was when Sarzen stopped abruptly, her light pointed at the ground.
We asked what she saw, and she just pointed and said, “look.”
There were footprints on the ground.
Not ours.
-----
We walked under the stars. We thought we must have been the first human beings to walk under the stars in thousands of years.
People had nibbled around the fringes of the Darklands before, gone into the places where the sun doesn’t shine, where icy lands and ice-crusted sea lie under a purple sky, where you can tell the direction of the sun only by a brightening on the horizon, where the farther away from the sun you walk the harder it gets to see. The Mudsen Expedition in ’49 got far enough they started to see the stars. They didn’t know what to make of them at first; little lights appearing out of the darkening sky, like little suns that didn’t light up the land and didn’t make it warm. But we were the first to really see the stars. We were the first to go far enough into the Darklands that that brightness on the horizon had disappeared; the first human beings in thousands of years to truly know what the old books called night. Or so we thought.
The Old Books talked about the stars. They said they were other suns, that other worlds went around. They said the first humans on the Undersun came from one.
The old books said the world humans originally came from spun around faster than it went around its sun, so it didn’t have any Darklands. It was light half the time there, and dark half the time. Our ancestors lived with the night. Every time the sun would go down, they would see the stars. Some of the Old Books are fiction, and they talk casually about night, about the stars. It would explain some things, why we can see better in the dark than any animal that doesn’t live in caves.
The ancestors were afraid of the night, but part of them also liked it, its concealment, its mystery, its stars. The stars are beautiful. Talsen cried when we first turned our lights off and let our eyes adjust to the dark and really saw the stars.
We were walking, farther into the Darklands, away from the sun. Talsen was talking about how sometime in the future we might bring people here to look at the stars, might set up telescopes pointed at the sky to see them. That was when Sarzen stopped abruptly, her light pointed at the ground.
We asked what she saw, and she just pointed and said, “look.”
There were footprints on the ground.
Not ours.
Re: Writing thing
I walk home. It’s cold. The bite of winter was in the air. The cold winter of the south, the winter that gave the Red Hands the color of their uniform. White of snow, white of bone.
The Red Hands are on the wall, in their red and white uniforms, looking down into the Pale behind their mirrored masks. The streets are almost empty, people going here and there bundled up in jackets and thermal pants. The air is cold, dry. Breath of the Antarctic.
I pass an alley. There is a fight. Two of the Red Hands are beating up a man.
No, they’re not, not really. Two of them are just standing there, and the man is attacking a third, the smallest one. The man is drunk, lurching, angry, screaming at them. He attacks the Red Hand, and the Red Hand mirrors his attack. He tries to punch the Red Hand in his mirrored mask, and the Red Hand punches him in the face. He tries to knee the Red Hand in the belly, and the Red Hand knees him. He’s much bigger than the Red Hand, but he’s clearly losing. The Red Hand initiates no attacks. He simply matches every unsuccessful attack the man makes with his own identical, successful one.
I am home. I call up Mother on the intercom to let me in.
The man seems to have given up. He lurches out of the alley, blood coming down from his nose, swaying. The Red Hands make no attempt to stop him leaving. They walk away, in the opposite direction.
The Red Hands are on the wall, in their red and white uniforms, looking down into the Pale behind their mirrored masks. The streets are almost empty, people going here and there bundled up in jackets and thermal pants. The air is cold, dry. Breath of the Antarctic.
I pass an alley. There is a fight. Two of the Red Hands are beating up a man.
No, they’re not, not really. Two of them are just standing there, and the man is attacking a third, the smallest one. The man is drunk, lurching, angry, screaming at them. He attacks the Red Hand, and the Red Hand mirrors his attack. He tries to punch the Red Hand in his mirrored mask, and the Red Hand punches him in the face. He tries to knee the Red Hand in the belly, and the Red Hand knees him. He’s much bigger than the Red Hand, but he’s clearly losing. The Red Hand initiates no attacks. He simply matches every unsuccessful attack the man makes with his own identical, successful one.
I am home. I call up Mother on the intercom to let me in.
The man seems to have given up. He lurches out of the alley, blood coming down from his nose, swaying. The Red Hands make no attempt to stop him leaving. They walk away, in the opposite direction.
Re: Writing thing
The ship is quiet. All I can hear is the quiet hum of fans, recirculating the air. I make breakfast for myself. Everything I do seems loud. It feels as if I’m disturbing the quiet of a temple, or a tomb.
I sit down and eat. Mati and Kadi say the food from the bins tastes bad, but I’ve never had this dish cooked the way it’s supposed to be so I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like. It seems rich and nourishing. I eat well here.
I felt the gap between me and them when we saw the inside of the ship. We called it luxury, me and the Kadirans, us from our marginal worlds. The Earthers and Bibati and the rest looked at us like they wanted to laugh at us but felt too sorry for us.
I clean the dishes and start my rounds and try to ignore the sounds from Mati and Kadi’s cabin. This is a Bebati ship, and they have no shame, and will not waste mass on thick walls.
We didn’t bother with thick walls in the barracks of Tenak either. The fact I can hear them and know what they’re doing doesn’t bother me. I’m just not sure I appreciate being reminded of that kind of thing. Not when there are only three … living? Awake? … human beings in ten light years, and I’m the unattached one.
They picked up on it. They offered to let me join them. They said it in the same way they’d offer to share a bottle or a pot. I was glad they said it in a way that reminded me of their strangeness, that discomforted me. It reduced the temptation to say yes.
I put on a jacket and gloves and go down into the cryobay, to check the preservation equipment. Mati doesn’t like to do this. She doesn’t like to spend much time in the presence of the dead, even the dead who are really just sleeping. I remember how me and my sister used to play in the ruins, and sometimes we’d find bones.
I go up to the cockpit and check the central systems. Everything seems to working fine. The ISM is dense here, the magsail is catching well.
Six months to go in a thirty year trip isn’t bad.
I sit down and eat. Mati and Kadi say the food from the bins tastes bad, but I’ve never had this dish cooked the way it’s supposed to be so I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like. It seems rich and nourishing. I eat well here.
I felt the gap between me and them when we saw the inside of the ship. We called it luxury, me and the Kadirans, us from our marginal worlds. The Earthers and Bibati and the rest looked at us like they wanted to laugh at us but felt too sorry for us.
I clean the dishes and start my rounds and try to ignore the sounds from Mati and Kadi’s cabin. This is a Bebati ship, and they have no shame, and will not waste mass on thick walls.
We didn’t bother with thick walls in the barracks of Tenak either. The fact I can hear them and know what they’re doing doesn’t bother me. I’m just not sure I appreciate being reminded of that kind of thing. Not when there are only three … living? Awake? … human beings in ten light years, and I’m the unattached one.
They picked up on it. They offered to let me join them. They said it in the same way they’d offer to share a bottle or a pot. I was glad they said it in a way that reminded me of their strangeness, that discomforted me. It reduced the temptation to say yes.
I put on a jacket and gloves and go down into the cryobay, to check the preservation equipment. Mati doesn’t like to do this. She doesn’t like to spend much time in the presence of the dead, even the dead who are really just sleeping. I remember how me and my sister used to play in the ruins, and sometimes we’d find bones.
I go up to the cockpit and check the central systems. Everything seems to working fine. The ISM is dense here, the magsail is catching well.
Six months to go in a thirty year trip isn’t bad.